CHAPTER SEVEN

PRESIDENCY COLLEGE (2)

In spite of the political atmosphere of Calcutta and the propaganda carried on among the students by the ter- rorist—revolutionaries, I wonder how I would have devel- oped politically, but for certain fortuitous circumstances. I often met, either in College or in the Hostel, several of those who——I learnt afterwards-were important men in the terrorist-revolutionary movement and who later were on the run. But I was never drawn towards them, not because I believed in non-violence as Mahatma Gandhi does, but be- cause I was then living in a world of my own and held that the ultimate salvation of our people would come through process of national reconstruction. I must confess that the ideas of our group as to how we would be ultimately liber- ated were far from clear. In fact, it was sometimes seriously discussed whether it would not be a feasible plan to let the British manage the defence of India and reserve the civil administration to ourselves. But two things forced me to develop politically and to strike out an independent line for myself——the behaviour of Britishers in Calcutta and the Great War. Since I left the P. E. School in January, 1909, I had had very little to do with Britishers. Between 1909 and 1913, only occasionally did I see a Britisher-—perhaps some of- ficial visiting the school. In the town of Cuttack, too, I saw little of them, for they were few and lived in a remote part. But in Calcutta it was different. Every day while going to or returning from College, I had to pass through the quarter inhabited by them. Incidents in tram-cars occurred not infrequently. Britishers using these cars would be purposely rude and offensive to Indians in various ways. Sometimes they would put their feet up on the front—seats if they happened to be occupied by Indians, so that their shoes would touch the bodies of the latter. Many Indians--poor clerks going to office—would put up with the insult, but it was difficult for others to do so. I was not only sensitive by temperament but had been accustomed to a different treatment from my infancy. Often hot words would pass between Britishers and myself in the tram-cars. On rare occasions some Indian passengers would come to blows with them. On the streets the same thing happened. British- ers expected Indians to make way for them and if the latter did not do so, they were pushed aside by force or had their ears boxed. British Tommies were worse than civilians in this matter and among them the Gordon Highlanders had the worst reputation. In the railway trains it was sometimes difficult for an Indian to travel with self-respect, unless he was prepared to fight. The railway authorities or the police would not give the Indian passengers any legitimate protec- tion, either because they were Britishers (or Anglo-Indians) themselves or because they were afraid of reporting against Britishers to the higher authorities. I remember an inci- dent at Cuttack when I was a mere boy. One of my uncles had to return from the railway station because Brit ishers occupying the higher class compartments would not allow an Indian to come in. Occasionally we would hear stories of Indians in high position, including High Court judges, coming into conflict with Britishers in railway trains. Such stories had a knack of travelling far and wide. Whenever I came across such an incident my dreamswould suffer a rude shock, and Shankaracharya’s Doctrine of Maya would be shaken to its very foundations. It was quite impossible to persuade myself that to be in- sulted by a foreigner was an illusion that could be ignored. The situation would be aggravated if any Britishers on the College staff were rude or offensive to us. Unfortunately such instances were not rare.1 I had some personal experi- ence of them during my first year in College but they were not of a serious nature, though they were enough to stir up bitterness. In conflicts of an inter-racial character the law was of no avail to Indians. The result was that after some time Indians, failing to secure any other remedy, began to hit back. On the streets, in the tram-cars, in the railway trains, Indians would no longer take things lying down.2 The ef- fect was instantaneous. Everywhere the Indian began to be treated with consideration. Then the word went round that the Englishman understands and respects physical force and nothing else. This phenomenon was the psychological basis of the terrorist• revolutionary movement—at least in Bengal. Such experience as related above naturally roused my political consciousness but it was not enough to give a definite turn to my mental attitude. For that the shock of the Great War was necessary. As I lay in bed in July, 1914, glancing through the papers and somewhat disillusioned about Yogis and ascetics, I began to re-examine all my ideas and to revalue all the hitherto accepted values. Was it possible to divide anation’s life into two compartments and hand over one of them to the foreigner, reserving the other to ourselves? Or was it incumbent on us to accept or reject life in its entirety? The answer that I gave myself was a perfectly clear one. If India was to be a modern civilised na- tion, she would have to pay the price and she would not by any means shirk the physical, the military, problem. Those who worked for the country’s emancipation would have to be prepared to take charge of both the civil and military administration. Political freedom was indivisible and meant complete independence of foreign control and tutelage. The war had shown that a nation that did not possess military strength could not hope to preserve its independence. After my recovery I resumed my usual activities and spent most of my time with my friends, but inwardly I had changed a great deal. Our group was developing rapidly, in number and in quality. One of the leading members, a promising doctor,3 was sent to England for further stud- ies so that on his return he could be of greater assistance to the group and greater service to the country. Everyone who could afford it contributed his mite towards his expenses and I gave a portion of my scholarship. Following this, an- other leading member accepted a commission in the Indian Medical Service, and it was hoped that he would there by gain valuable experience and also lay by some money f0r future work. After two years’ hectic life my studies were in a hope- less condition. At the Intermediate Examination in 1915, though I was placed in the first division (which, by the way, was an easy affair), I was low down in the list. I had a mo- mentary feeling of remorse and then resolved to make good at the degree examination. ` For my degree, I took the honours course in phi- losophy—a long cherished desire. I threw myself heart and soul into this work. For the first time in my College career I found interest in studies. But what I gained from this was quite different from what I had expected in my boyhood. At school I had expected that a study of philosophy would give me wisdom—knowledge about the fundamental ques- tions of life and the world. I had possibly looked upon the study of philosophy as some sort of Yogic exercise and I was bound to be disappointed. I actually acquired not wisdom but intellectual discipline and a critical frame of mind. Western philosophy begins with doubt (some say it ends with doubt also). It regards everything with a critical eye, takes nothing on trust, and teaches us to argue logically and to detect fallacies. In other words, it emancipates the n1ind from preconceived notions. My first reaction to this was to question the truth of the Vedanta on which I had taken my stand so long. I began to write essays in defence of mate- rialism, purely as an intellectual exercise. I soon came into conflict with the atmosphere of our group. It struck me for the first time that they were dogmatic in their views, tak- ing certain things for granted, whereas a truly emancipated man should accept nothing without evidence and argument. I was proceeding merrily with my studies when a sudden occurrence broke into my life. One morning in January, 1916, when I was in the College library I heard that a certain English professor had malhandled some students belonging to our year. On enquiry it appeared that some of our class—mates were walking along the corridor adjoining Mr O.’s lecture-room, when Mr O., feeling annoyed at the disturbance, rushed out of the room and violently pushed back a number of students who were in the front row. We had a system of class-representatives whom the principal4 consulted on general matters and I was the representative of my class. I immediately took the matter up with the Prin- cipal and suggested among other things that Mr O. should apologise to the students whom he had insulted. The Princi- pal said that since Mr O. was a member of the Indian Edu- cational Service, he could not coerce hin: into doing that. He said further that Mr O. had not malhandled any students or used force against them-— but had simply “taken them by the arm” which did not amount to an insult. We were naturally not satisfied and the next day there was a general strike of all the students. The Principal resorted to all sorts of coercive and diplomatic measures in order to break the strike, but to no avail. Even the Moulvi Sahib’s efforts to wean away the Muslim students ended in failure. Likewise the appeals of popular professors like Sir P. C. Ray and Dr D. N. Mullick fell flat. Among other disciplinary measures, the Principal levied a general fine on all the absentee stu- dents. A successful strike in the Presidency College was a source of great excitement throughout the city. The strike contagion began to spread, and the authorities began to get nervous. One of my professors who was rather fond of me was afraid that I would land myself in trouble being one of the strike—leaders. He took me aside and quietly asked me if I realised what I was in for. I said that I was--whereupon he said that he would say nothing more. However, at the end of the second day’s strike, pressure was brought to bear on Mr O. He sent for the students’ representatives and set- tled the dispute amicably with them, a formula honourable to both parties having been devised in the meantime. The next day the lectures were held and the students assembled in an atmosphere of ‘forgive and forget’. It was naturally expected that after the settlement the Principal would withdraw the penal measures he had adopted during the strike, but they were disappointed. He would not budge an inch—the fine would have to be paid unless a student pleaded poverty. All appeals made by the students as well as by the professors proved to be unavailing. The fine rankled in the minds of the students, but nothing could be done. About a month later a similar incident came like a bolt from the blue. The report went out that Mr O. had again malhandled a student—but this time it was a student of the first year. What were the students to do? Constitu- tional protests like strikes would simply provoke discipli- nary measures and appeals to the Principal would be futile. Some students therefore decided to take the law into their own hands. The result was that Mr O. was subjected to the argument of force and in the process was beaten black and blue. From the newspaper office to Government House eve- rywhere there was wild commotion. It was alleged at the time that the students had at- tacked Mr O. from behind and thrown him down the stairs. This allegation is entirely false. Mr O. did receive one solitary stroke from behind, but that was of no account. His assailants——those who felled him-— were all in front of him and on the same level with him. Being an eye witness myself I can assert this without fear of contradiction. It is necessary that this point should be made clear in fairness to the students. Immediately after this the Government of Bengal is- sued a communique ordering the College to be closed and ap pointing a Committee of Enquiry to go into the contin- ued disturbances in that institution. The temper of the Gov- ernment was naturally very high and it was freely rumoured that the Government would not hesitate to close down the College for good. No doubt the Government would have given the fullest support to the staff as against the students. But as ill-luck would have it, the Principal fell out with the Government over the official communique. As the Gov- ernment orders Were issued over his head, he felt that his amour propre had been hurt and his prestige damaged. He called on the Honourable Member in charge of Education and made a scene at his place. The next day another offi- cial communique was issued saying that the Principal5 was placed under suspension for “gross personal insult” to the Honourable Member. But before power could slip out of his hands the Principal acted. He sent for all those students who were in his black list including myself. To me he said—or rather snarled——in unforgettable words, “Bose, you are the most troublesome man in the College. I suspend you.” I said “Thank you,” and went home. Shankaracharya’s Maya lay dead as a door nail. Soon after the Governing Body met and confirmed the Principal’s order. I was expelled from the Presidency College. I appealed to the University for permission to study in some other college. That was refused. So I was virtually rusticated from the University. What was to be done? Some politicians comforted me by saying that the Principal’s orders were ultra vires since the Committee of Enquiry had taken over all his powers. All eyes were turned to the Committee. The Com- mittee was presided over by Sir Asutosh Mukherji, former Vice—Chancellor and Judge of the High Court. Naturally we expected justice. I was one of those who had to represent the students’ case. I was asked a straight question——— Whether I considered the assault on Mr O. to be justified. My reply was that though the assault was not justified, the students had acted under great provocation. And I then proceeded to narrate seriatim the misdeeds of the British- ers in Presidency College during the last few years. It was a heavy indictment, but wiseacres thought that by not uncon- ditionally condemning the assault on Mr O. I had ruined my own case. I felt, however, that I had done the right thing regardless of its effect on me. I lingered on in Calcutta hoping against hope that something favourable would turn up. The Committee submitted its report and there was hardly a word in favour of the students. Mine was the only name singled out for mention—so my fate was sealed. Meanwhile the political atmosphere in Calcutta grew from bad to worse. Whole- sale arrests were made, and among the latest victims were some expelled students of the Presidency College. My elder brothers were alarmed and held a hurried consultation. The consensus of opinion was that to stay in Calcutta with- out any ostensiblc vocation was extremely risky. I should, therefore, be packed off to a quiet corner like Cuttack where there was comparative safety. Lying on the bunk in the train at night I reviewed the events of the last few months. My educational career was at an end, and my future was dark and uncertain. But I was not sorry—there was not a trace of regret in my mind for what I had done. I had rather a feeling of supreme satisfac- tion, of joy that I had done the right thing, that I had stood up for our honour and self-respect and had sacrificed my- self for a noble cause. After all, what is life without renun- ciation, I told myself. And I went to sleep. Little did I then realise the inner significance of the tragic events of 1916. My Principal had expelled me, but he had made my future career. I had established a precedent for myself from which I could not easily depart in future. I had stood up with courage and composure in a crisis and fulfilled my duty. I had developed self-confidence as well as initiative, which was to stand me in good stead in future. I had a foretaste of leadership—though in a very restricted sphere—and of the martyrdom that it involves. In short, I had acquired character and could face the future with equa- nimity.

  

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